


The Book of Chimaera

by abbysojee



Series: Golden Sand [5]
Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers, The Spies are Foreverse
Genre: literature references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:36:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23145544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbysojee/pseuds/abbysojee
Summary: Surely, Owen’s love will come and save him.
Relationships: Owen Carvour & Agent Curt Mega, Owen Carvour & Chimaera, Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega
Series: Golden Sand [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1389760
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33





	1. Icarus

It’s fitting, that Owen should die amid flames. 

When Owen was sixteen (young, rebellious, mouthy), he joked with Mrs. Mary Anderson (pious, devoted, motherly) about his descent into hell. She had struck him upside the head and told him in her sweet Welsh accent not to joke about such things. But it had been obvious to him, even then: he was damned. Mrs. Mary had come around to the idea once she’d caught Owen, at seventeen, with another boy. She’d told him he would burn. 

Welsh never held the same charm again. Fire kept the appeal, though. Owen dreams about it; a glorious blaze, a blazing decent. 

It is Curt who redefines the nature of fire. He curbs some of Owen’s more fatalistic impulses, holds the darkness at bay. Owen is not much of a poet, but Curt makes him want to  _ write _ . He spends many nights huddled over a table, furiously scribbling, frustrated that the poetry isn’t pouring out of his heart.  But all he can do is quote classics. 

(No matter how many haikus or sonnets Owen drafts, his destiny does not lie in the realm of poetry).

He compares his love for Curt to Icarus and the irreparable pull of the sun. That is what it feels like, being with the other agent, as if every particle of his being is drawn to him. Like he can never look away. 

But even Curt is aware of the myth’s ending. He asks Owen about it on their 30th meeting, hands around a coffee mug: “Doesn’t Icarus fall into the sea and die because of the sun?” 

“Oh, but his descent was glorious,” Owen says admiringly. (Perhaps Curt hasn’t completely gotten rid of the fatalism). “And I’m not worried. You would never let me die.”

Soon, Owen realizes he doesn’t  _ want _ to die. He wants to wake up next to Curt every morning, to hear his laughter, to listen to his lame taunts. Surely that isn't too much to ask. 

But now (after meeting number 47) he is pinned beneath an iron beam, crushed into the ground. Is that Curt he spots, staring down? “Curt,” he croaks out. “Please, love!” But his voice is too small, and what looks to be a face turns out to be a poster of hard-faced Joseph Stalin. 

Surely, if Curt redefined the nature of fire, he will change the myth. Surely, Owen’s love will come and save him. He swears, even now, that the sun is shining through the smoke and down on his face.


	2. Prometheus

Owen watches rain batter the windows of the steel tower, dripping shadows on the office floor. The sound of thunder and the corner clock  _ tck-tck-tck _ ing are the only music accompanying his thoughts, but his brain is no symphony.  He seems to stare at the shadows for hours. Soon, the rain stops and only the ticking remains. But the downpour leaves behind a spring-feeling. Owen can’t help but feel that the world has taken a deep breath. That a new chapter is beginning without him. Fitting, that he is now dead.

He did not picture hell being an office building. 

_ Then again _ , he thinks with no shortage of amusement,  _ what could be worse than an eternity spent filling out paperwork _ ? Perhaps that is his Sisyphean task. He will complete pages upon pages but never reach the dotted line. Possibly, it’s payback for every report he never finished during his old life as a spy. 

A door opens behind him. A man or a demon (or both) walks in. He’s middle-aged, dressed in a white suit that washes the color from his pale face. He takes a seat behind the oak desk Owen sits in front of and offers a thin, manicured hand. Owen doesn’t take it. Not necessarily to be rude, but because his own hands are black with ash. 

If the man takes offense, he doesn’t show it. He steeples his fingers in front of him, silver cuff links catching in the light. They’re engraved with the image of a mythical beast. Lion-headed, with a serpent’s tail; a Chimaera, if Owen is not mistaken. He knows the story. 

“Hello, Mr. Carvour.”

Owen does not expect the man to speak. He is too busy staring at his hands (the carpet floor, into space). He doesn’t allow himself to look surprised and says nothing. 

The man presses his thin lips together. “I am Loki. Not - ” he pauses to laugh delicately, as if telling a joke - “the Norse god, I assure you, but something more. Water?”

“No. Thank you.” Owen winces at his own voice. It’s as cracked as his dry lips, hoarse from either disuse or screaming. 

“Suit yourself. You must be wondering how I knew your name?” The man pulls a neat manila file from a side drawer and turns it around so Owen can see. It’s a file on  _ him.  _ There’s a photo of the top of his head in London, a glimpse of his leg in Spain. The most complete photo is a picture of Owen from Zurich. (He can tell it’s from Zurich because that polo could only be Cu-).  _ No. Stop _ . Thinking of those memories makes him feel like he is treading barefoot on glass. Next to the photo is a list of every mission Owen has been on in the last two years. The last log reads:  _ Novosibirsk, Soviet Union. KIA.  _

Loki watches him carefully. His eyes are hazel, the deceptive shade. “We’ve been watching you for quite a while, Owen.”

“Why?” Owen pulls the file to him. He stares down at the words. Killed In Action. It’s as he thought; he _ had _ died. But why would they show him this? 

The answer comes soon enough.  Torture, of course. That’s what they do here, what numerous people had promised they would do to him in hell. He had pictured being burned in hot oil or stretched out on the rack. But what could be worse than knowing the world has moved on without you? That you have been abandoned? That you are alone in all the ways that matter.  He closes the file. 

Loki asks, “What did the doctor tell you?”

His memories are muddy. It takes his brain several moments to dredge up the image of a pretty young nurse. She’d told him that the burns weren’t severe, (“embers,” with a curled lip and a heavy Russian accent), that they would heal. That he was lucky. He had been overtaken by rage, reached for something - anything - to hurt her.

(Then he had been surprised).

Owen blinks. “What  _ is _ this?”

Loki raises a single blond brow. 

“I’m dead ,” Owen says. “If this is hell, I must say, it isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.” It is a lie and a truth wrapped in one; Owen's specialty.

“You’re not dead, but I suppose it doesn’t matter what you think you are.  _ MI6 _ thinks you’re dead. Your partner - ” Owen’s brain ricochets off of that branch of thought - “reported you as killed in action. So, you see: you’re a ghost. I’m here to see if you want to be something more.”

Owen, against all of his misgivings, asks, “Something more?”

Loki stands. He moves to look out the floor-to-ceiling windows, out over the city. It is night, but lights dot the horizon. He places both hands against the glass, as if to reach through it and feel them. “We all,” he says softly, “need help reaching our full potential. Chimaera allows us to do so.” His breath fogs against the glass. 

“Chimaera?”

“Yes, Mr. Carvour. People that fight the status quo, that steal power from the elite, fire from the gods - those are the children of Chimaera. While others blind themselves to the bigger picture, Chimaera will conquer all.” He crosses over and seizes Owen’s hand. Their eyes meet. Loki says, “For the Norse, Ragnarok wasn’t an end, but a beginning. We will level the world and create a new one, a better one. From ash.” His hand comes away blackened. “Are you angry, Owen?” He asks.

Owen almost laughs. He has been angry for so long. Angry at his parents, at their faith, at the shell that took them from him. At the world for telling him he was nothing, that he was disgusting. At Curt, for reporting the letters K and I and A. At himself. 

Burn it. Burn it all to the ground. Create a better world, from ash. 

It is an offer to rejoin the land of the living. A chance to participate in a new beginning. 

“What do I have to do?” He asks carefully. 

Loki smiles. He uses a white handkerchief to wipe his hands. “When a person is inducted into Chimaera, they choose a name. A new identity free from all pain. We like to use mythological names, if you couldn’t tell,” he adds.

Now it is Owen's turn to smile, all teeth. “Perfect,” he says. “I have a name in mind.”


	3. The Midnight Hour

Prometheus, ironically enough, moves in the shadows. They say he is always there, waiting. Like a demon. Prometheus, Prometheus, Prometheus. Summon him once, I dare you. Without the proper payment, you will lose your tongue. 

They say he is a gun-for-hire. Some say he is a ghost. 

No matter what life he has been living, some parts never change. People say a lot of things, and most of them are wrong. 

But a ghost… It has a good ring to it. Waiting on the roof, back against the chimney, he turns the word in his mind and the blade in his hands. It gleams prettily in the moonlight, but his thoughts are lost to memories.  _ My hour is almost come/ When I to sulphurous and tormenting flames/ Must render up myself.  _

His head whips painfully to the side as if slapped by an invisible hand. A self-inflicted reminder not to tread on the grave of his past. No. The flames are behind him. Revenge - sweet, promised revenge - guides his future.  The chimney warms his back, but Prometheus can’t feel it. He can’t feel anything, there. Not anymore. 

Below, the doors fly open, spilling light onto the snowy sidewalks. Bar sounds escape and flit into the night - laughter, drunken singing. Just as quickly the doors swing closed, locking the joy behind them. 

It is Christmas Eve. Prometheus has never cared much for the holiday.

“ _ Scheisse _ , ” the man below him hisses. “Fuckin’ snowstorm.”

The accent is the only thing Prometheus needs. He takes a step forward, off the roof and lands with barely a sound. The snow cushions him as he steps towards the piss-drunk stranger. 

Well, not a stranger. Not anymore. 

“Gotta smoke?” the other man asks as Prometheus nears him. 

He supposes his fist is answer enough. 

The other man is a gun-for-hire and buzzed enough to stumble. He relies on pure instinct and even purer arrogance. Prometheus was arrogant once, before the flames stripped everything away. But he had withstood his test of fire and came out tempered, reborn. He is a ghost and something-more-than-a-ghost. 

Neither of them use guns. The falling snow softens their heavy breathing and their footsteps, but would not silence a bullet. That leaves them only their hands. Prometheus’s knuckles are already bruised. Growing quickly tired of swinging fists, he pulls out his knife. With a quick twist and a booted shove, the other man falls to the ground, hands scrabbling in the darkening snow. 

He is almost amused. 

“Who the  _ hell  _ are you?” the man whispers in English, clinging to life by the thinnest of chains.

Prometheus crouches in the snow, carefully out of arm’s reach. “I have been watching you for quite some time, Logan,” he says. The man stills, though Prometheus can’t be sure if it’s due to terror or the persistent tug of death. “And you are little more than a pretender claiming a title that isn’t yours.  _ I  _ am the Deadliest Man Alive. You are a child, playing with things you don’t understand.”

“You’re not a man,” the other assassin says, voice acidic. “This isn’t  _ fair _ !”

Prometheus stands, coat dragging against the ground, considering the statement. He is detached from any notion of it, weighing both sides. Is he a man? He knows he had been once. He had desires, for flesh and fulfillment, before his trial. He had felt things before they had been burned away, not by the flames of Novosibirk but at the hands of Chimaera. He is grateful to them for showing him the light, but he is angry too for having to wait years for it. Revenge - sweet, promised revenge - is so close he can taste it. 

It tastes like shared breath, whispered endearments, and whiskey. 

His ruminations take longer than he thought. That happens sometimes, when he considers the past - he loses many moments to idleness. The corpse of the Former Deadliest Man Alive is still warm. “Life isn’t fair. But Chimaera will change that,” he tells it. But it feels like a reassurance to himself.  _ Only a little more time.  _ “ I almost wish you could have seen it, Logan. And from a certain point of view, you will. Your words are now my words, your touch my touch, your life my life. We serve Chimaera now, not as men but something more. ” 

If Logan’s soul is comforted, Prometheus doesn't know. Nor does he care. All that matters is the light, so close now he could wrap his fingers around it and crush it as easily as breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote is from Hamlet (because I've decided Owen is the dramatic emo kid I could never be).


End file.
